Vague Thoughts With Anu

Z, Age 9

He lives his life as if on the brink of madness—speaks too fast, eats too furiously. 

He grows nightly, a body that will soon refuse to contain the chaos spreading inside. At night I imagine he dreams of swiftness—he curses, spits, sweats like a drug addict rummaging through his last bag (he would not understand this comparison, for the worst the world has yet to offer him has come in the form of wounded birds and smashed rodents on the main street.)

He turns to me now, body bursting with energy, words dangling from the tip of his tongue. I play a game, guess what he may say before he says it. The game lasts .0003 seconds, as he has already sputtered out four words: “It’s time to fly!” and off he runs. The dire need to share this with me is replaced with the necessity of action. His warmth, his inclusion of me in this desire is followed by the sting of him leaving me behind. 

For I am too slow, too old, too heavy, too burdened to fly along with him.